


Lethologica

by Lesetoilesfous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Background Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesetoilesfous/pseuds/Lesetoilesfous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it's about finding the words to say it. Or: Sam attempts to seduce Gabriel, the archangel is vaguely confused, and I'm writing schmoopy word porn because I've got exams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lethologica

"Pretoogjes."

  
Gabriel blinks up at Sam, for once finding himself sitting while the hunter paced restlessly around his seat. His brow creases, just a touch, in an expression that had heard of frowns, once, and decided it didn't much like them.

  
"Dutch. Literally, fun-eyes. The eyes of a person who is up to benign mischief." He looks at Sam, who is paying attention to neither the mug of coffee he has in one hand nor his smart phone in the other. "And?"

  
Sam shakes his head. His hair shifts with the movement: it's a little heavy, a little greasy. His eyes are wide and bloodshot. He shuts them, in a compulsive, sudden movement: and Gabriel is halfway to standing, fingers raised, when Sam waves him off.

  
"Looking for the right word." This being said, he turns and walks down the bunker's long, central hall, eventually turning right, towards his bedroom. Vaguely perturbed, Gabriel shrugs to himself and snaps out of existence.

*

  
"Trouvaille."

  
"Your French is better than your Dutch." Gabriel smiles a little as he says it, frowning at his odd little hunter (he supposes by vessel, that's not entirely fair, but then he makes Cas' true form look like a dwarf, and he's an archangel, and heck, he might have a touch of small form syndrome.)

  
"And?" Sam's voice is rough, a touch higher than normal. He stares at Gabriel, and waits for something. Gabriel doesn't know what. So he goes for the simple answer.

"French. Valuable discovery, lucky find. Something lovely discovered by chance."

  
Sam nods, keeps staring. Gabriel spreads his hands. "I've got nothing kid. You're going to have to use your words."

  
The corner of Sam's eye twitches, his eyebrows pull his forehead into an all too familiar frown. He looks down and away, then shakes his head.

  
Dean turns up, sliding into the booth with them, haphazardly balancing Gabriel's milkshake, Sam's health smoothie and his own afternoon beer. Sam's frown deepens, just a little, and Gabriel is concerned. Then he wonders when he got so domestic, and slips onto another plane between one breath and the next.

His oreo milkshake (extra cream, extra malt, extra marshmallows) sits abandoned.

Dean raises one eyebrow at the space before him, then turns to Sam.

  
"I'm telling you man. Sometimes, you just gotta speak the honest truth."

  
Sam doesn't reply.

*

  
"Milozvucan."

  
Gabriel winces. "Your Serbian is the worst so far." Sam just waits - and his shirt's got blood on it and Gabriel is healing him without thinking because he'll lie to a lot of people, including himself, but he doesn't want to keep pretending. When Sam lets out a great huff of air as his ribs knit themselves back into place, and Gabriel realises belatedly that his lung was punctured, he feels a spark of unexpected rage rise from somewhere long since left aside within himself.

  
"So this game was more important than you suffocating, huh? How's that working out for you, Mr Mortal and Proud?"

  
Sam shrugs. "I'm fine now."

  
"You wouldn't have been."

  
Sam shakes his head, "Gabriel, you've been popping up for two years since your resurrection. You've got my back, so I don't worry." There's a slight smile hovering around the corners of his mouth, and damn Gabriel wants to be angry but he wants to see that rare smile so much more.

"You're an overgrown, irritating, gigantor moose man and I don't know why I waste my time on you."

  
Sam laughs, and Gabriel is an archangel of the lord and he is endless and all powerful and right at that moment he is pandering: because he wants Sam to smile and he wants him to laugh and he wants him to be happy so badly it hurts.

  
"Yeah, uh, for the messenger of the lord, you're not so hot on your phrasing, are you?"

Gabriel raises both eyebrows, playful disapproval flickering across the face of a vessel he's worn for so long it feels like him. "A sweet and gentle voice that sounds pleasant to the ears." Sam pauses, frowning, and it's not the tired, deep one that folds his features into despair, it's the simple, eyebrow raising nuance of confusion. Gabriel figures categorising the guy's expressions should have been one romance novel cliche too far, but he likes denial. "Milozvucan."

  
Sam smiles, like there's a joke that Gabriel's missing.

*

Heat of the Moment comes onto the radio. Calmly, Sam reaches out a long arm and flicks it off. The silence is deafening in a way that Gabriel has never understood until that moment.

In stilted German, Sam mumurs to the dusty air. "Verschlimbessern."

Gabriel says nothing. (To make something worse by a well-meaning but misguided attempt to make it better.)

Gabriel is about to run: because running is what he does and he knows how to do that and no matter how bad it gets it hurts a hell of a lot less people.

Sam says "stay."

Gabriel does.

*

Gabriel is laughing, his stomach is aching because he enjoys the feeling and he's breathless and he's snorted at least twice. Dean looks pleased with himself, having finished a story about he, Sam and their first adventure into baking.

He gets up to visit the bathroom, and Sam raises his glass. Gabriel toasts, still smiling, and Sam grins at him. "Mbuki-Mvuki"

"Bantu. Getting naked to dance with joy." Gabriel responds on impulse because he kind of likes this game: he was made for words, after all. He giggles and raises his eyebrows at the younger Winchester. "Why Sammy, is that a proposition?" The effect is ruined by his collapse into further laughter, and then Dean's back, and Sam's leaning against his seat, quiet, eyes intent upon the angel before him.

*

There's not much that can threaten an archangel. A Knight of Hell is one of the few exceptions. But Gabriel is fine, because he's old and clever and not as rusty as Abaddon has gotten, and he survives with a few minor war wounds and a very, very worried Winchester. Quite suddenly, he understands Dean's impatience with Sam's fussing. Batting the hunter's hands away, Gabriel shrugs. He can't quite stand, yet, but he will in just a minute when his grace moves on from his wings to his peskily broken ankle.

Of course, standing would mean extricating himself from Sam's embrace. So honestly, he's in no hurry. Sam just shakes his head, and in amongst all the patting and the "are you hurt?"s, repeated ad nauseam, the "you idiot"s and the "shit, you're ok"s, Sam garbles another word. "Vuslat."

It's Turkish. (A union or reunion after being apart for a long time with one's beloved.)

Gabriel is quiet, and he wonders whether Sam saw his body: the one his brother murdered, before good old Dad decided to bring him back after all. And then he curls into Sam's arms, and says nothing at all.

*

Gabriel does a twirl in his fancy suit, more than ready to finally accompany the boys on a hunt. He's promised three times that he won't turn their guns into water pistols, and that at no point will he imply that the FBI have dealings with aliens (they do. The aliens just happen to be Shapeshifters taking advantage of human gullability. Neither Sam nor Dean saw this as a valid objection.)

"How do I look?"

Sam glances up from his book, and grins a little. "Kilig."

"Tagalog. Language of the Phillipines." Gabriel replies, double checking his pockets for a fake ID he could will into existence with a thought. "Rush of joy, shiver down your spine, when you see something romantic or cute-" He pauses, glancing up. But Sam's picked up his books and gone. Presumably to pack.

Gabriel doesn't snap out of existence. He just frowns at the space where the hunter had been.

*

Sam leaves the arc of his movement incomplete: his muscles relax easily, like those of a dancer, and Gabriel acts without thinking, easily taking down the vampire behind them with a touch. He wonders when it became this simple. Across the room, Castiel turns to meet his eyes. Playfully, Gabriel kicks his little brother back out of his head, turning to Sam.

"We make quite a team, Samsquatch! Got some moves." He does a little hip wiggle, moving his arms to emphasise it, and Sam chuckles.

"B'shert."

It takes Gabriel a moment, because clearly the guy has never spoken another word in Yiddish. When he's recognised it, he wants to ask something. He's not sure what. But Sam's moved away by that point, left the room to seek out the rest of this particular, mercenary nest. Castiel pauses in the doorway, and if Gabriel didn't know better, he could have sworn his brother was smirking.

(The seeking of a person who will complement you, and who you will complement perfectly.)

*

Doctor Sexy comes on tv, and Sam's face goes a little pale when it gets to surgery. He changes channels, and Gabriel is halfway to chuckling when he notices Sam very deliberately reading a book he had not been holding only moments ago.

"Charmolypi."

Gabriel offers it like a white flag. Sam smiles, just a little. "Greek. Joy-making sorrow. Happiness while sad. Regret over past wrongs, mixed with hope for repentance and forgiveness."

"Nice Sammy. You'll be beating me at this game, soon enough."

"Messenger of the Lord?" Sam snorts. "Yeah, right." He's quiet for a little while longer, and Gabriel's itching to run and he isn't entirely sure why he's staying. His wings are half spread when Sam says, softly, to his book. "It reminded me of both of us."

Gabriel sleeps on the couch.

*

Sweater vests suit Sam. So does tweed. It's sort of a sexy librarian thing, and that's a thing that Gabriel has because, well, words. Also, because Sam's layers are usually tattered, haphazard and lumpy. These are well-fitted. Deliberate.

He gives a low whistle. "Looking good Sammy."

Sam Winchester blushes and Gabriel's heart does not flutter because the expression implies a physiological hazard not a romantic notion, and besides that his being and his vessel are not the same thing. (It does, though. He feels like a teenager.)

"Tebar pesona."

His Indonesian isn't bad at all, and Gabriel blinks. "Trying to get strangers' romantic attentions by dressing up and looking good." He frowns a little, and wonders why he's somewhere between what he might call hurt and annoyed. "Get tired of being a bachelor? Cos I'm gonna say that a city called Flint might not be the go-to place for a real catch."

Sam laughs, but he doesn't reply. Gabriel flies to Hawaii. He needs a break.

*

Gabriel reappears, naturally, and Sam is eating salad on a bench. It's so idyllic that for a second the archangel thinks he's found the wrong Sam Winchester. And then the hunter reaches into his pocket and withdraws a packet of skittles, handing them over. Gabriel grins, delightedly breaking open the plastic, and Sam smiles back.

"Hanaemi." He says it softly, looking down and blushing just a little, again.

Gabriel realises, belatedly, that he's blushing too. Somewhere nearby, he could swear he feels Cas' grace laughin.

(Japanese. A smile as beautiful as blooming flowers.)

Gabriel wonders where Sam's going with this. He doesn't ask.

*

Gabriel's hurt again and he could swear it was never this difficult when his brothers were alive, though he supposes that then they had their armies and he was invisible. Sam isn't alone in his fussing this time: blearily he realises that Cas and even Dean are hovering over the altar on which he'd found himself some...time...before. His wings hurt, which he guesses is because they were burning until Sam broke the circle, and he feels sick because he can only imagine what sort of depravity these demons and witches would have committed in order to weave a charm so powerful.

It wasn't perfect: he broke it enough to contact Sam, and as it turned out the witches were not so hot on the physical combat side of things. Three demons had been trickier, but two Winchesters and a Castiel were no mean foe, and it hadn't taken them long. Which was good, because his wings weren't meant to be scarred and bleeding and burning and blistering, and he was vaguely aware that he was trembling, wrists slit and bleeding into specially prepared silver bowls (the torture, as far he could tell, was simply that.)

Sam gently lifts him into a sitting position, and Cas hisses, and Gabriel wonders with his fading grace how much of his wings his brother can see. Sam knows little about such things, but he sees Cas' concern, and knows its rarity, and in a sudden moment of panic he puts his (huge, warm, calloused) hands on either side of Gabriel's face. He waits until the archangel meets his eyes. "Ya'aburnee."

Arabic. You bury me.

Gabriel wants to say that won't be difficult, considering he's immortal in theory, and Sam is many things but he's not that and he will die and it'll be a breath in Gabriel's existence.

He doesn't reply.

*

 

As it turns out, Sam's patience breaks first. Later, Gabriel will point out with distinct smugness that of course it did. In reply, Sam will note how long it took for him to get the game, and the fact that in the end he had to have it explained. Gabriel will stick his tongue out and both of them will smile and Dean will roll his eyes and make Cas pancakes.

It went like this.

Gabriel was in the bunker with Sam. Dean and Cas were at a bar, on a date they insisted wasn't a date but which definitely was. Gabriel had been teasing Sam with cheesy pick up lines for nearly an hour. In that time the hunter had remained impressively resilient, right up until the hour mark, when he took a moment to check his phone, and stood. Gabriel snapped himself into Sam's path, between the man's body and a bookshelf. The corner of his mouth jumped, and the next thing Gabriel knew he was pinned between two (ridiculously muscular) plaid-clad arms: which wasn't actually true, because hello, trickster, but the principle was there.

Smirking just a little, Sam waits: presumably to see whether Gabriel will try running - but there's no way he's doing that because he's far too interested in what's gotten Mr Zen all hot and bothered.

"Cheiloproclitic. Basorexia."

Gabriel manages to murmur, "An erotic attraction to someone's lips, an overwhelming-" And then Sam's mouth is on his, and his stubble scratches but he's warm and hot and wet and Gabriel will deny it until the end of time but he moans because this is something that he is all for. He reaches up to wind his fingers in Sam's hair, and Sam pulls back just a little, grinning, and mummurs. "Cafuné."

Gabriel hums, doesn't move his fingers, mumbles against Sam's soft, chapped lips. "Brazilian portuguese." And then Sams biting, gently, one big hand slipping under Gabriel's shirt and the skin-to-skin contact sizzles up his spine and pools in his abdomen, hot and promising. Sam nuzzles against him, moving down to mouth along his jaw, kiss and bite his neck, and Gabriel reckons he could be saying something here but his mind's gone blank because it's Sam and he smells delicious and he's treating Gabriel like he's all there is and that's intoxicating.

Sam fingers wrap firmly around Gabriel's side, his other hand gently clasping the side of the archangel's neck, and he presses their foreheads together. He glances down and away, before looking back up. The archangel wonders if humans will ever get boring. Not with eyes like that.

"Yuanfen."

Gabriel snorts. "Your mandarin is appalling."

Sam smiles. His blush deepens, but he doesn't back off. Gabriel frowns, just a little. "A relationship by fate or destiny, the binding force between two people." He pauses. "Sam, you know that fate had nothing to do with this, right? Your fate was..." And he breaks off, because Sam knows, and he's not that much of a dick.

"Forelsket." Sam shrugs, a small smile still hanging round his mouth, though his hands have dropped away from Gabriel's sides, and he nearly grabs them back, but he doesn't because that would be undignified and besides that he thinks he's missing the point.

"Norwegian. The exhilarating feeling when you're first falling in love- oh." Gabriel pauses, shuts his mouth. Wonders how he could be so blind.

Sam tilts his head to the side, smiling, just a bit. "You know, for an archangel, you can be pretty slow. No offense."

Gabriel arched an eyebrow. "I hate it when people say that."

"Oodal." Sam's grinning now, arms folded and leaning against the shelf opposite the angel.

"Tamil. Fake anger between a couple over a lovers' tiff, usually something inconsequential." Gabriel raises both eyebrows. "So we're lovers?"

"Do you want to be?" Another glance: down, away, back up. Soft hazel eyes warm beneath thick dark lashes. The hint of a smile on chapped lips still a little red from their kisses.

"Do you?"

Sam shakes his head, and he's laughing, and he steps forward and cradles Gabriel's face in his hands. "Pretoogjes. Trouvaille. Milozvucan. Verschlimbessern. Mbuki-Mvuki. Vuslat. Kilig. B'shert. Charmolypi. Tebar pesona. Hanaemi. Ya'aburnee." He pauses, thumbs brushing over the cheekbones of Gabriel's vessel, and for once the archangel doesn't think that's what he's seeing at all. He feels as if Sam can see him, truly, and know him for what he is, and love that, anyway. Sam shakes his head, and he's smiling a little. "You silly, wonderful, brilliant, stupid, beautiful creature." Gabriel would take offense at that, but Sam's still holding him and it feels nice and he's willing to let the human ramble (he's definitely not being affected by Sam's words. Nope. Not at all.)

Sam smiles, just a little. "I love you. Te amo. Je t'aime. Alskar dig. Wo ai ne. Ich liebe dich." Gabriel reaches up to put a finger on his lips, and Sam falls silent, and his eyes are still bright and Gabriel suddenly feels uncomfortable and he wants to step back but he can't so he says, instead.

"You don't know what you're in love with."

Sam shakes his head, and he leans down and kisses Gabriel, gentle, firm and chaste. He lingers and Gabriel lets him, and his eyes nearly fall shut but they snap open when Sam withdraws.

"I've got a pretty good idea." He presses a worn, fat leather notebook into Gabriel's palm. Gabriel looks from the pocket sized object to the less pocket sized hunter, bewildered. Sam shrugs. "I'm willing to learn."

He leaves, and Gabriel turns to the first page, and finds it filled with words: all sorts of words, in all sorts of languages, centering around beauty and love and romance, annotated and corrected and carefully kept - page after page after page.

When, eventually, Gabriel gives in, months of random absence later, it is with a sigh. "Koi no yokan." Sam beams, and kisses him, and the archangels' wings flutter and he's pretty sure Sam notices, but he doesn't care.

"That's enough for me."

(Japanese. The sense you get on meeting a person for the first time that you are going to fall in love.)


End file.
